Drop.
to the floor you:
sweet talk of pug dogs and politics
- you looking like some two-bit
conchy reporter with an addiction to
Benzedrine.
No you’re not Tom Waits,
or Woody Guthrie for that matter,
Drop.
down the gutter:
the dentist ain’t gonna like
this sweet tea and tobacco…
The chef’s got long hair (you’d cut yours).
Rub your bright eyes,
take off your necktie before
you take off your jacket.
It’s hot,
and the sun screams through the
window.
What are you here for?
no no, really…
“The police have been over there” -
you pull in your chair,
too loud…
“2 eggs and a sausage, 40p tea
please” -
It was my grandfather’s actually.
Oh and another rollover -
how long is it gonna take before you get
this natural?
“Salad in a corn beef sandwich.
To take away please”
“We got lettuce!?”
“yeah, that’s alright”
“We’ve got pickle”
“That’ll do”…
(A man comes in says
“Wanna buy a lucky watch?”
you ask him “Why’s it lucky?”
he says “It hasn’t stopped.”)
So why are you in here?
A bus passes - gives you some shade,
you squint your eyes,
look into
your ashtray.
Missed. Pissed; you blow the
ash away. Another day
you’ll come here, not order
anything, write songs with
a match on a complimentary
napkin,
sing songs of lonely people
and working class belief,
then catch a train to the dentists
- you got tobacco in your teeth.
